like a prayer

it feels like a prayer tonight
this time i´m losing the fight
and nevermind those vermins
slow coming to down my flight
raw purity has no place here
and silent echoes of lost time
bloodstain these stranded souls
for away eternity still pines

the box is closing in
and my air wearing thin
i´m not ready to give
to those unholy three
the moon, an empty sky
fly by me, open wide
to receive some kind
of misguiding light

please
take my hand and show me
something that´s alive inside
the road is strange tonight
and the screaming eyes hide
from my fear

the words mask the mute
and burning eyes see none
typical rape of the soul
that untold scars unfold
in the mirror of laments
that the pretenses break
unspoken the gap widens
never hope for the faker

after hours

forget the driving night
straight through mind and soul
leaving traces of light
inside things tasting holy

come
forget
no regrets

take the beat in you
disconnect, lightning rods
shoot for the stars
burning within your body

feel me
taste me
drink me
become me
become me
become me

take your mind off
take your mind off

barren lands

the wolves will ride with you
and the moon above will shine
in the hope to break free too
from those neverending nights
breakaway from the quarantine
that leaves the deepest scars
all you see now becomes yours
from ruined lifes to the skies

still you fail to see
the price of your liberty

three more steps you´re inside
the cave in which truth lies
the fallen children have cried
all the tears you could find
now you begin to see destinies
that without faith intertwine
despair becomes your frailty
and memories flood your eyes

now you start to see
the price of your liberty

the farthest reaches reached
it fails on you, no answers
greet you here, no results
from upholding that cancer
you became inside your head
now you wish you were dead
but the reaper fails you too
only your hell stands by you

and now all you feel
is the price of your liberty
fail the future, your past is near

diário de um tasko-dependente, 6

desbravo mais uma garrafa de tinto
e as perguntas fogem, cada uma à vez
agarro o neurónio único, solitário
na busca de uma resposta a esta sordidez

o balcão alonga-se aos vários infinitos
quantos estes alcóois que me entoam
suaves melodias de manhãs desacordadas

ergo-me cambaleando entre o whisky
e as cervejas de passados já distantes
e desisto finalmente
de quem desistira de mim.


in taska raska

Baraka through Tool's Disposition

no words of mine can truly do justice to this.

scenes from the film Baraka, to the sounds of Tool's Disposition.



immerse..

crew expendable

these dogs barking cold
and the happiness unsold,
first glow upon thieveries
of a thawed heart slithered.

it's a melancholic software,
throes of illusion grow rare,
some hours breathe longer
under acid burns' orders.

slay the reptilian smiles
with crosswords of denials,
still inch after lonely inch
temples dry between winces.

though windows still look out,
mirrored they silence shouts,
this windbreaker cannot hide
the drowned from the tide.

sunflower laws will not wither
the weed's yearn for winter,
as the stayed kniving hand
will never nourish the land.

just as the walls quiet again,
born of dissent there is a man,
faltering not before apocalypses,
duct-taped to life nearly missed.

weathered

it's exhausted, bathed in gloom
that new light arises old hearts
over dirty shoulders guilt looms
barbed wire wrap severed parts

saturdays replete with beginnings
sundays drenched in lost feelings
weeks of spiders crawling under
shards of hope cutting blunt

the dawn steals all the reasons
that the night promised as whole
dirty caskets of shared treasons
don't belong in stories untold

rain down hell in souls wretched
no peace, no home and no rest
still doubts disappear from moments
cascading fast in buried lungs

the words remain in silent hills
as drops of time in burning reels

the room

strings of attachments renewed
as vows of lies forever
the sirens call for sanity
but the undertakers are busy
and the flowers wither and are reborn,
dancing with destiny.
the lines crossed become part of what separate us
and the tingling of life
becomes muter by the word.

the words sparse as joys say nothing
and the music between spaces become communication tools
and the ceiling gets closer
and the windows look darker
and there is something else unspoken and misunderstood.

the cries elsewhere are now shades of horizon,
a soundtrack to our islands.